THE PALE YELLOW AND RUST-COLORED BUILDING THAT HOUSED THE FBI overlooked the interstate less than a mile from the international border. At six stories it was one of the tallest buildings in Laredo, and it stood out against the flat and hazy skyline. The black iron fence and a metal detector at the entrance were the only signs the building housed several federal law enforcement agencies, including the FBI. In the pecking order of federal agencies fighting the drug war at the border, the bureau was somewhere in the middle. At the very top was the DEA, with twice as many agents and resources, which occupied the top two floors of the building. Some of the other agents called them the “cowboys of the DOJ” because they didn’t hesitate to run roughshod over other agencies when it came to drug investigations. Homeland Security Investigations, or HSI, was the underdog. A part of the Department of Homeland Security, it had existed for less than a decade and was still finding its way as an investigative agency. The FBI and the HSI shared a floor underneath the DEA.
Two months into his new job, Scott Lawson was still daydreaming about getting in his truck and heading north for Tennessee. But the thought of his father’s disappointment kept him rooted in Laredo. Besides the massive FBI policy manual, the only thing on his desk was a framed photograph of his great-uncle, Bailey Howell, a six-time All-Star in the NBA, underneath the basket boxing out Wilt Chamberlain when he played for the Boston Celtics. Going pro had been Lawson’s dream too, but he’d been forced to accept in college that it was never going to happen. So he’d settled for Plan B, which was to become a cop like his old man.
Growing up, he’d sometimes ride along after school with his father to the scenes of car wrecks and burglaries. His parents had divorced when he was three and both had remarried. His dad was busy with a new wife and a baby at home. So he looked forward to those nights alone with his dad, patrolling the backcountry roads. There was rarely a murder in rural Hardeman County, Tennessee. His dad had done two tours of duty in Vietnam before he was twenty-one and seen enough of death already. By the time Lawson was fifteen, he was treated more like a fellow deputy. His dad would send him to check the pulses of car crash victims to see whether they were alive or dead. He did whatever he was told, just so he could ride along with him at night. He loved the camaraderie his dad had with the other chain-smoking deputies on the force. The way he looked at it, they sacrificed themselves to protect the innocent. It made him feel as if he was part of a special brotherhood.
But no matter how hard his dad worked, he never made enough money. Like most cops, his father liked to joke that the feds left all the grunt work up to the locals while they sat in their air-conditioned offices “in their suits and ties with their nice salary and benefits.” But being able to provide for your family and retire someday, especially in small-town Tennessee, was no joke, and so his father had encouraged him to become a federal agent—take the salary and the benefits—and do better than he had.
Having watched his father struggle to provide for them, Lawson knew he had a point. So after getting a college degree in criminal psychology, he became a deputy south of Nashville with the idea of joining the FBI as soon as he gained some law enforcement experience. After four years as a deputy he applied and was accepted into the FBI training academy in Quantico. The only thing that made his dad prouder was his graduation six months later. And now here he was in Laredo, a full-fledged FBI agent and obedient son, wondering whether he’d been better off a deputy in Tennessee. With a sigh he flipped open the policy manual and started on a new chapter.
His reading was interrupted by Hodge, who swung around in his office chair. “I’ve got something for you,” he said, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. Lawson turned around in his chair to face Hodge with a look of puzzlement. “I want you to go to Central Texas with me,” Hodge said, “and help me flesh out a new investigation.”
Lawson nodded, waiting for the rest. He assumed Hodge was referring to the tip from Mexico that the FBI’s McAllen office had received about a recent Oklahoma horse auction. An American had bid on some racehorses and set a public auction record of $875,000 for a horse named Dashin Follies. It made news in the Oklahoma papers, but the source said the real buyer was Miguel Treviño. When Hodge had mentioned it a couple of weeks ago, Lawson was already familiar with Treviño. He’d been immediately intrigued when Hodge had mentioned the Zeta cartel boss to him, but his hope was just as quickly burst when Hodge said he was working the lead with someone else.
He leaned in closer in his chair to hear what Hodge had to say. Hodge explained that he and the other agent from the McAllen office had already visited with the American who’d bid on the horses. His name was Tyler Graham, he said, a young guy from a prominent family outside Austin who had made their fortune racing and breeding quarter horses.
Hodge had found the interview at Graham’s farm tough going, which was why he needed Lawson’s help now. It was difficult to strike up any kind of rapport with him, Hodge said. He didn’t know a thing about horses. “You’re a country boy. You wear cowboy boots,” he said. “I know you know something about horses.”
During one of the many dinners at Hodge’s house, Lawson had mentioned how his mother kept several quarter horses at a stable near their home and insisted he learn how to ride. Someday he hoped to have a ranch of his own in Tennessee, with a few horses. Lawson felt foolish now having told them of his dream. It was a long way from the reality of a rookie agent living in a cheap extended-stay hotel near the interstate.
“So, what do you want me to do?” he asked.
Hodge explained that McAllen was handing off the investigation. The FBI had made some changes since the Zetas and the Gulf Cartel had split in February 2010, cleaving their territory in two. The McAllen office, 150 miles southeast of Laredo on the border, would have an AOR, or area of responsibility, focused solely on the Gulf Cartel now. Everything west of McAllen was now Zeta territory, which meant Laredo got the Treviños.
“I want you to meet Tyler Graham and try to get him to cooperate,” Hodge said. Lawson’s job would be to be likable and establish a rapport with Graham and see whether he would work with them as a source. “Why don’t you see how you hit it off?” Hodge said, urging him on.
Lawson felt his mood lifting for the first time in days. He was no expert on the Zetas, but he did know something about horses. Right now they didn’t have much, said Hodge, just Graham, who’d said very little during their first meeting, and the tip from Mexico.
Lawson wasn’t sure he could get Graham to work with them. Graham came from a wealthy family, and rich people had the tendency to disappear behind a wall of lawyers. But Lawson was willing to try if it got him out of the office and back on the streets.